Bones fall into the landscape
Like sand through the center
Of a circular, cyclical hour glass
And chronology tempers
To the bend of the land.
We will never understand
As do those who are of this place
That we stand on a landscape
built from the top – down
By the sculpting hands
Of an ocean still inherent
In the endless dry horizons.
Whose land is this?
Where did they go?
This place is a desert
And I should not be here.
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